


present tense

by majorkirastan



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: I AM. HAVING JM FEELINGS., Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Safehouses, YES THIS IS TWO IN TWO DAYS, mister jarchivist sims cant deal w emotions not being explicitly spelled out for him, post-159
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:21:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22902361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majorkirastan/pseuds/majorkirastan
Summary: “You love me,” he murmurs, the words catching in his throat. It’s not a question, not really, although his voice quavers enough that it’s only one step removed.“Of course I love you,” says Martin, equal parts puzzlement and softness. “Have for a long time, actually.”--or: love confessions and cups of tea.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 24
Kudos: 386





	present tense

Martin’s quiet on the train up to Scotland. Not just quiet, in fact; he seems drained. Empty. Jon watches him, tossing worried glances in his direction whenever he thinks he isn’t looking, but he’s not sure how to help, if he _can_ help at all. When Martin catches him staring, he offers Jon a placating smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and Jon feels worry tightening in his chest.

For an avatar of knowledge, Jon finds himself catastrophically out of his depth when it comes to figuring out what to say. He doesn’t have the words to tell Martin that he’s here, that he cares; he’s always struggled with expressing emotion, particularly verbally, and he has no idea where he might even begin. He sighs, glances over at Martin, who is staring outside the window and into the distance with a numb, staticky fog clinging lightly to his slumped shoulders.

And Jon doesn’t understand emotions, not really, but he recognizes hurt when he sees it. Carefully, awkwardly, he slides a hand over to Martin’s, links their pinky fingers together. Martin doesn’t react, not really, but when Jon looks back a few minutes later, he seems at least a little more present, more solid. His shoulders straighten up slightly, and Jon feels the coil of cold anxiety unknot itself ever so slightly from his stomach.

Martin remains distant, though. Even when they arrive at the safe house and drop their hastily-packed bags at the door, even when Jon tentatively leans against his shoulder as they collapse onto Daisy’s couch, even when they wake up entangled in one another’s arms with awkward fumbling closeness. They’re close, sure, but it’s like there’s a wall around Martin, one Jon can’t seem to break through no matter how he tries.

 _Maybe he wants separation,_ Jon thinks. After all, Martin doesn’t reciprocate his— _feelings_ , not anymore, he made _that_ much clear back in the Lonely, and perhaps Jon is crossing some invisible boundary. So he pulls away, trying his hardest to respect what he can only assume are Martin’s wishes. He sits stiffly on the opposite end of the sofa with a book, makes sure that he leaves room between him and Martin in the bed; when a stray lock of hair falls into Martin’s face, he has to stifle the impulse to gently tuck it back behind his ear.

Martin doesn’t warm up any, though; if anything, he seems even more detached. The separation between them, if only a foot or so, feels stilted and wrong, but Jon bites it back, for the sake of Martin’s comfort. He doesn’t want to drive him even further away, doesn’t want to ruin what little sentiment Martin still holds for him with his inability to recognize appropriate limits.

And then Martin hands him a chipped mug from Daisy’s cabinet. It’s the first time since before the Unknowing that Martin’s made tea for him; Jon’s had tea since then, of course, but it’s never tasted right. Most of it has gone cold, been poured down the drain of the break room with a regretful sigh. Privately, he wonders whether he even liked tea in the first place, or whether he just liked the way Martin smiled at him when he stopped by his door. Either way, now, as he tentatively holds out the steaming ceramic, something within Jon’s chest dares to flutter. He shoots it down with a stinging reminder that sometimes tea is just tea.

As he carefully takes the hot cup with his unscarred hand, though, the steam blows into his glasses and fogs over the lenses. It’s only a split second, a mere fraction of a moment, but it’s enough to conjure up vivid memories of empty shores and hollow smiles and tears that are only a drop in a great ocean of nothing, and in that instant, lost in the memory— Jon _Knows_.

He starts with the force of the Knowledge overwhelming him, almost dropping the cup — as it is, a fair amount of tea sloshes onto his jumper — and without thinking, he grabs tightly onto Martin’s hand. It’s halfway between an acknowledgement of something he can’t quite name and an anchor grounding him in the present, but either way he can feel his fingers trembling. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and Martin stares at him in concern, but finally he musters up the ability to speak.

“ _You love me,_ ” he murmurs, the words catching in his throat. It’s not a question, not really, although his voice quavers enough that it’s only one step removed.

“Of course I love you,” says Martin, equal parts puzzlement and softness. “Have for a long time, actually.”

“But— you didn’t— why didn’t you _say_ anything?”

“I did. Back in the Lo— back in _there._ Remember?”

Jon remembers, of _course_ he remembers; that particular moment is filed away somewhere deep in Jon’s psyche, suspiciously near to his heart, but—

“You said _loved,_ past tense. I thought…” He trails off, suddenly aware of how Martin’s hand is very warm and very solid in his own. He tries to distract himself from the flush that is threatening to creep across his face by setting his mug firmly down on the table, to only moderate avail, but right now his burning cheeks are the least of his concerns. “I thought you _didn’t_ , anymore, which would be… fair.”

“Oh, _Jon,_ ” whispers Martin, and his heart is breaking as he folds Jon’s hand tightly in both of his own, his walls crumbling. “I wasn’t thinking straight, I wasn’t— I didn’t feel anything. I was lost.” He pauses, takes a deep breath. “I was lost and _you found me._ ”

And it’s all Jon can do to let a soft _“oh”_ slip from between his lips.

“I— God, Jon, I love you. Present tense.” He runs his finger gently across Jon’s knuckles. “I love you so much.”

A chuckle of disbelief snakes its way out of Jon’s throat, but he cuts it off. “I’m sorry— I’m _so sorry,_ Martin, I thought...” He shakes his head. “I love you too, Martin.” Hesitantly, he steps closer, his free hand rising to cup Martin’s cheek, and he pulls him down so that their foreheads are resting against one another. “Present tense."

**Author's Note:**

> comments are appreciated!! love yall <3
> 
> also unfortunately jon is an enormous adhd/autism mood wrt emotional understanding and i simply cannot help but project onto him ://


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